Pests
by Bainaku
Summary: Michiru and Setsuna spend some quality time together.


**Warning: **This story alludes to two women together. If you're not fond of such things, you might not like this. There's some innuendo here too, so proceed with caution, ye wee innocent underage readers. I'm not responsible for searing out your retinas—though I would be honored if you'd grant me the privilege.

**Commentary: **This is for all of you who wanted more fun stuff from me, though this short is also especially dedicated to **Black-Robespierre**, because you make me think about how relationships ramble, work, and evolve, and without people like you—and criticisms like yours—I think my writing would be dreadfully boring. Thank you! Please keep speaking your mind!

While this story mentions Haruka and Michiru, they are not the primary focus here. I've decided to give another character I consider severely underrepresented and under-appreciated in the fandom some love—from Michiru, no less. Keep an open mind, my dears, and also keep _in_ mind that Michiru has quite a big heart. Haruka's not the only one who lives in it. She just pays the rent.

As always, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the BSSM franchise. It belongs to the goddess Takeuchi Naoko.

* * *

**PESTS**

"I need Haruka."

Michiru looked up from her magazine, stirred out of a stupor regarding the season's most celebrated heels. Her housemate and friend and resident Guardian of Time, one Meioh Setsuna, stood a few feet away at the entrance to the kitchen. The woman's copper cheeks were marked with tiny flour-fleck handprints, battle wounds gained during a recent cookie-baking war under Hotaru's infant supervision. Wine-colored eyes wide, nostrils flared, she stared hard at the smaller woman reclining on the couch.

"I need Haruka," she repeated. "Where is she?" She looked at Michiru as though she expected the petite soldier to produce her lover from between the couch cushions.

"Um," Michiru managed, "she went for a run." She closed her magazine slowly, worried that sudden movements might upset her housemate.

Her efforts were for naught. Setsuna's shoulders slumped. Color bled from her face and she sagged in the kitchen archway, tucking a devastated expression into a hand that was, Michiru noted with alarm, trembling. "Damn," she choked. And again, in a weak thready hiss, "_Damn_."

"What's wrong?" Michiru rose. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and the magazine slithered away, forgotten. She had never known anything to so deeply distress the implacable woman who lived with them. Setsuna's sensibilities were, in Michiru's experience, as steadfast and sturdy as granite. Walking in to find Haruka with Michiru's bra strap in her teeth resulted in little more than an arched nori-green brow. A broken pipe and the consequential exploding toilet at midnight revealed only a level-headedness that brought the district's single 24-hour plumber to their doorstep within fifteen minutes. Hotaru's wailing woes over two new incisors evolved in the eldest soldier not frustration, but lullabies.

But now she peeked at Michiru from between two tremulous fingers, a vast and broken world shimmering in her cherry gaze. "It's terrible," she whispered.

Michiru swept across the room to the taller woman. She reached out to touch a chilled hand, the flame of true anxiety kindled in her breast. "What is it?" she demanded. "Setsuna? Is it Hotaru?"

Galvanized by the thought of the baby in danger, Michiru made to rush into the kitchen. She was drawn up short by the sudden iron band of Setsuna's fingers about her wrist. Seconds later, a babyish cackle drifted from the other room, assuaging her worries and deepening her confusion.

Setsuna looked no less grim. "Don't go in there," she advised Michiru hoarsely. Her fingers gave the tiniest, most desperate squeeze.

Uncertain whether to be afraid or to simply question her friend's sanity, Michiru turned her full attention back to the other soldier. "Setsuna, what on earth—"

"It's enormous," Setsuna replied cryptically, half-paralyzed by the thought of whatever evil lurked in the kitchen. Beads of sweat stood out on her upper lip. She shivered, pupils the size of dimes.

Frowning, Michiru curled her fingers over Setsuna's to rub them, then gave them a tug and insisted, "Show me."

Setsuna fixed her with a penetrating look. Michiru felt the eldest soldier's fathomless eyes bore into her very soul, evaluating, searching, the fine-fitted teeth of a garnet comb. Despite the temptation that rose in her to flee, Michiru remembered the sacrifices Setsuna had made on behalf of so many others, herself included. Eternal loneliness. Helicopter explosions. Living with a couple caught (more than once) in the act of christening the couch.

She held firm. Setsuna deserved it.

Setsuna flicked her eyes away suddenly and, with a deep breath, led Michiru the few faint steps to the kitchen. Easing aside, she released her fellow soldier and motioned to the doorway.

Michiru peered within.

She saw nothing extraordinary at first. Ensconced safely in her highchair, Hotaru gaped gleefully at her from amidst a smear of chocolate chips and dough. A fresh bowl of cookie batter rested nearby the stove; the bag of flour, carefully clothespinned, leaned against it. The oven ticked. The refrigerator hummed.

Then she caught sight of it, and her horrified insides congealed into a giant block of ice.

She looked up at Setsuna in abrupt and absolute understanding. "Oh my God."

Setsuna nodded and gazed gravely back. "I know."

"What do we do?" Michiru chanced another glance into the kitchen. Her stomach roiled.

"Haruka usually takes care of them."

Michiru shook her head, hackled curls bouncing. "No good. The breeze is coming in off the coast today. She might not be back for hours."

Setsuna hooked her arms loosely about herself and watched her fellow soldier, her expression one that bordered on helpless. "I don't know, then." Her shoulders rose and fell in a slight, shivery shrug.

They looked at each other. In the kitchen, Hotaru cackled again.

"We can't just leave it," Michiru said at last.

"It must be destroyed," Setsuna agreed, the proclamation fervent.

Lip bitten, Michiru thought about it. When the only plausible solution nibbled its way into her brain, she held up a finger and told her friend, "Stay here. Don't move. I'll be right back." She set off for the hallway.

"You are _not _leaving me here." Setsuna sounded both hurt and appalled.

"I am," Michiru allowed, casting what she hoped was a reassuring look over her shoulder, "but I'm coming back." She noted the anguish in the tallest soldier's eyes and tacked on, "I promise."

She hurried next into the bedroom she shared with Haruka and threw open her closet. She rifled through its meticulous compartments at something close to the speed of sound. Soon she found what she wanted, and she seized upon them before she dashed away again to rejoin the eldest of their trio.

"I think these might work," she said, and passed one over. She wielded the other for herself, like a sword.

Setsuna examined the thing that had been thrust into her hands. "These are your favorite flats."

"My _only _flats," Michiru affirmed, and slapped the one she'd kept into the meat of her palm. It made a dull, satisfying _whuck_.

Setsuna surveyed the younger woman in growing appreciation. "I see."

Voice both severe and resolute, Michiru brandished the slipper and asked, "Shall we?"

Her fortitude seemed to strengthen the older soldier. Mouth a thin, brittle line, Setsuna tightened her fingers about her proffered piece of footwear and approved, "Let's do."

They stepped into the kitchen as one perilous entity, hips brushing, weapons at the ready. Perhaps sensing them, their enemy made a skittering break for it. Michiru dove after it in hot pursuit, knocking over the bag of flour. Setsuna flanked her, makeshift hammer held aloft, an enraged Amazonian shriek on her lips.

_Whuck-WHUCK-whuck-whuck!_

"I _missed_!"

"Get it!"

_Whuck-whuck!_

"I'm tryi—IT'S IN YOUR HAIR!"

"GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF—!"

_WHUCK._

"My _cheek_!"

"Oh God, I'm sorry! I'm _so _sorry, I—_there it goes_."

"Kill it!"

_WHU-KRNCH._

"…is it dead?"

Michiru checked. The flattened corpse of the goliath cockroach gave a single spasming twitch.

_Whuck-whuck! _

"Now it is."

The two warriors sagged against each other and sank to the kitchen floor, where they panted and savored their victory. Hotaru amused herself by snatching delicately at the flour-flake clouds sifting up from their clothes. Benign, the faucet dripped, and the cookies browned in the oven.

"Michiru?" Setsuna asked at length.

"Mm?"

"Is this…" She paused, uncertain. She worried her powdery hands together. "Is this what you call… bonding over shoes?"

Their eyes met, the shadow to the sea, and they dissolved together into helpless laughter.


End file.
